


Summerboy

by singasongofdestiel



Category: Lady Gaga (Musician), Supernatural
Genre: Beach Holidays, Beach Sex, Destiel - Freeform, Falling In Love, Ficlet, Holidays, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Romance, Songfic, Summer, Summer Love, Summer Romance, Summer Vacation, time limit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4847030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singasongofdestiel/pseuds/singasongofdestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean goes to the same place every summer. He loves the sun, sand, sea and sex combination that he's sure to find there. This summer ought to be like no other, until he meets his summerboy for this year. And it's great, really great. But not as simple as it has always been before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summerboy

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the Lady Gaga song of the same title.

Dean rolled down the windows of his Impala, breathing in the rolling hills and the taste of summer, dry heat drifting through his lungs. He had the sea on his right, and was coasting along the kind of road he had wet dreams about. He was full to the brim with self-indulgent laziness, dissolute revelry in the fact he had nothing to do for a whole month.

He was going absolutely nowhere— the speed dial proclaimed he was going nowhere fast.

A sharp corner at skid mark speed and he was facing his destination. The wide expanse of beach opened its arms to him, salt-scorched and shining. He grinned and let out a whoop that was immediately cast away by the air, tossed between the engine’s decorticated roars until it was swallowed by the silent shimmer of hardboiled tarmac.

 

The sand’s heat swelled through Dean’s cheap plastic flip-flops as he picked his way along to the ramshackle beachside café.

Every year he came to the same place. There wasn’t anything in particular to distinguish it from any other holiday destination: beach, boardwalk, babes in bikinis were all present and correct. Dean supposed it was the normality of the place that attracted him; every stereotype he could wish for was contained within the matronly bays and their susurrating azure seas. Here was a place that he could drink coke out of the bottle, and feel like he belonged in the glossy-magazine adverts that splashed through his grey-framed office.

Dean was free to pick any life for himself, with any and all that lounged into sight.

For example, just now the heat haze was broken by a man passing through the doorway of the hut (Dean suspected the door had been deliberately removed to fit with the indie-theme).

Dressed in beige shorts and a white polo neck, the man looked as though he preferred damp, woodland holidays that smelt slightly of moss and were wrapped in the smoke of fireplace libraries, to the brochure-highlight that he was experiencing. Dean could take him on, and make him never want to return anywhere which didn’t have 24-hour sunshine with summer-on-tap.

Maybe this time, that stranger would be Dean’s summer boyfriend.

Dean leant back in his seat to further assess his prospects.

The man must have been here for a couple of days already—he had the implicit glow of pre-tan. His exposed arms and legs fell into the category between slim and decently athletic, and his hands held the foregone conclusion of a pale-covered paperback.

He sat down at a table, sipping a cup of coffee and secluded in the fictional. Every so often he would grin, and his features followed their plotted course of dimples and crow’s feet, a verdant transformation that drew ecstasy from its doze. With eyes that must have been stolen from the sea, and hair which suggested the sea had tried to claim them back, it was simply crazy how gorgeous this man was.

To sum up, Dean’s response was a resounding: _Get your ass in my bed_. Yup, Dean had chosen his summer boy.

He eased himself opposite those eyes, content in their escapism, and had to pause while he realised the sheer clarity of colour which they encapsulated. A flotsam of emotions writhed with the jetsam twists that cruel literature fed to them, his whole face prose-prone and dreaming. Dear God, he had to have this one.

“Hey there.” Dean dripped his liquid grin across the table, and adjusted his arms in just the right way to flaunt his nicely toned muscles.

The other man didn’t lift his eyes from the pages, simply moved his drink further towards him to make more space available.

Dean was pulling his A-game here, and getting absolutely nothing. He knew that he was on peak form— the backdrop of beach bliss played to all the advantages that genetics had seen fit to give him.

“Is this your first time here?”

A small frown showed that at least Dean wasn’t invisible.

“Yeah, it is. I don’t suppose it’s yours, though.”

And just like that, Dean’s response had been given for him. His conversation-starter flopped like papier mâché removed from the mould too soon. It would just be too cruel if this beautiful man wasn’t interested in guys. But then, he was wearing socks and sandals.

The sun slanted through the windows and the glass artificially magnified the heat, raising the spectres of burning ants in the stilled air. While Dean’s eyelashes battled with the sliced light, his ego struggled with the idea that he would have to give this one up.

As coffee and coca-cola dispensed caffeine to the two neighbouring bloodstreams, Dean held the silence, gripped it in slightly sweaty hands and prayed he wouldn’t be the first to drop it. He had nothing else to try, but it would be too awkward if he left before he had finished drinking.

Where had he gone wrong? This wasn’t the table he would have chosen, but the overall weathered-timber aesthetic of the café still favoured his green eyes, and he had chosen his dark v-neck to display just enough of the sun’s generous stain.

The coke’s sticky aftertaste clung to his throat; this no longer felt like a magazine.

The other man placed his cup down with firm premeditation, and took care to fold down the corner of his page.

He stood, and clasped Dean’s gaze.

“Let’s get lost then, you can take me home.”

Gobsmack and dumbfoundation and a whirling pool of nonplus. Dean’s lips parted, the inability to process revealed in a thickening gloss on his eyes.

“Or just somewhere nice where we can be alone, if you prefer.”

Dean stood up hastily, ears full of his pulse and his heart not taking the job of listening seriously.

“Yeah, excellent. My car’s just outside.”

He didn’t know how, but he’d done it. He had found his summerboy.

 

They didn’t make it back to Dean’s place that day.

The pressing heat breathed their proximity, implying touch before it happened.

By the side of the road, they crashed into each other, sea striking shore.

At some point they introduced themselves, either between or before kisses, Dean couldn’t recall.

They drew gasps between waves, Cas drawn to Dean in a synopsis of the sand’s claim on the sea.

Breathless and warm and grasping: desperation belonged there between them— each knowing this one summer only.

Tides and tumbled sand, sun fractured by saltwater, by car windows. Glimpses of skin sanctioned and sanctified by the surf, smooth and golden in a bombora’s caress. The lit tongues of Nereids met with orgasm’s own laudation.

Dean comprehended the epilogue of the wave, the ocean’s hold on the sand, as he lay back and saw more than he had seen in anyone before.

Not that he thought it was love, but if practicality was laid aside, it could be something like it.

 

After that first time, they had sex, canoodled, made love, lust and luxury; at Dean’s seaside themed apartment, Castiel’s decadent hotel, once or twice somewhere more public and closer to the sea.

Lips burned with sun cream stolen from each other’s chests and ice cream cloyed across hours and snapshots tore lungs suspended in sodium chloride. Dean learnt how to taste anew, discovered nerve-endings where his skin chafed against stubble, taught when to tickle and cling and gasp.

They stole each other’s breath, nights, days. Each claimed summer from the other, and hid it deep within himself.

 

Sometimes Castiel would start a fight.

They were both dominant personalities, and the turntable game of control had to boil over sometimes.                

While Cas fumed in a corner or raged over something that had or hadn’t been said, Dean would pretend everything was alright.

It was only for summer, and the imbalance of feelings involved in an argument had no room in that.

 

They were on the beach, and Castiel paced around whatever issue he’d chosen now.

Dean lay back on the sun lounger that they had been sharing until a few minutes ago.

His green eyes were covered by his sunglasses, giving him free reign to check out the other guys on the beach.

He trailed lackadaisically from the lifeguard to various passersby, allowing himself a few seconds of freedom with each. Brief imagined kisses and accidental hand brushes drifted across the unmoving clouds. They hung, dense and foreboding in the sky, but it never rained.

A postcard sunset crept along the sugared edge of his Martini, and Castiel returned to him.

He curled between Dean’s legs, pushing him back onto the slightly-too-hot-to-be-comfortable plastic with one hand and flicking away the dark lenses with the other.

The impassioned kiss let Dean know he wasn’t off-the-hook yet, but he may as well have been.     

 

A chill snuck in from the sea, curling between the lovers and claiming a temporary pause.

Cas drew back, but not in anger this time.

“Dean, don’t be sad when the sun goes down.”

“Why would I be? I’d be in bed with you.” Dean tried to diffuse, to utilise the gravity of the moment to drag them into their familiar orbit.

“No, I mean, when you wake up and I’m not around.”

This drew his eyebrows together. He played into his best pout, “Would you not even say goodbye first?”

Petulance suited his long eyelashes well, and earned him the chastisements that well-worn tenderness loathes to give.

As Cas berated him with further kisses, Dean felt the slight twang of regret.

But he had always known it would end, and they would always have this summer after all.

 

The next day Castiel woke in bed alone, which was unusual in these weeks of perpetual company— each moment was one they wouldn’t have again, and was helplessly gathered in among the seashells and selfies that would hold their memories.

Sullen and a little insulted, he showered slowly and tried to think where to look for Dean.

It turned out he didn’t have to— before he had finished dressing (skipping the socks now, after Dean’s stern lectures and ritualistic burning in the first week) Dean appeared around the door.

He was wearing a leather jacket that was obscene in the swelter that air-conditioning was powerless to abate, and he leant against the doorframe like he owned the copyrights to Danny Zuko.

“Hey there summerboy, let’s go for a drive.”

Cas earned a grin by picking up the role of Sandy, pushing Dean back roughly and oozing huskiness in a phrase that purred along his tongue.

“Take me for a ride.”

 

The scenery bleared around them, and the hunted sun chased them back. Nebulous emotions swung around their heads and synchronised into joy, pure and simple.

Their eyes were open, and they were never going to close them.

 

Often in the last of their four weeks, they ran along the beach. If they pushed themselves until their ribs were aching and their muscles melted, then they didn’t have to face talking.

 

Still as the sea-sand boundary, they clung to each other in the wreckage of Elysium, immutably anchored but jet skied towards the inevitable inevitability that was goodbye.

Under the stars, when they thought the other was asleep, they alternately confessed that edge of love which blinked at them from the depths. And each heard, and made no response, because to do so would make it tangible, and the dream within reach is more painful than any.

 

They did leave each other there. The last day was overly loud and bright, a compensation for their loss. They twisted their sadness into hysterical happiness, a tawdry salute at what they still refused to know.

Swallowed by the sunlight, Castiel drove off first.

Dean stood in his brochure-paradise and felt its emptiness. He couldn’t visit here next year.

He said it again to himself; we’ll always have this summer.

A subdued buzz from his phone opened to the closing of it all.

_Goodbye Dean._

Goodbye, Dean thought, but wouldn’t type. Another text came through.

_I love you._

The stupid bastard. Tears applauded the revelation, in all its choked serenity.

We’ll still have the summer after all. The mantra was no longer effective, like tights see-through with ladders; there was nothing if not the summer after, and the one after, and maybe a winter or five. Hell, chuck in a Halloween and seven Christmases, and maybe Dean would accept a few Thanksgivings if he had to.

He slammed into his car. He typed the response he knew had to make.

_I loved you too._

Admission didn’t match the realisation. He tried again.

_I love you too._

He backspaced it, flung on the reverse.

 

Ten minutes later he pulled into a lay-by. He was crying properly now, and the road that was God’s gift to drivers deserved better than that.

He moved out into the sun’s embrace, but it was a shitty rebound for the man he had lost.

He sighed, and pulled out his phone.

The ringing offered him nothing, and he hoped it would be picked up. But of course not, Castiel was driving, he was leaving Dean behind.

He left a message anyway, a last ditch effort.

“Hey Cas, call me when you get this.”

He held the silence, and imagination ceased to work. Here was real, and now was real, and nothing else.

“I love you, too.”

He hung up, quickly—as though the answering machine could offer a response.

He didn’t get back in the car, but waited.

The mountains were orange-glazed and fading into lilac obscurity, sugar-coated summer relinquishing the helm.

Dean felt the advances of autumn’s troops in the night’s crispness; its ordered frontiers erased the mirage-gripped sincerity that hung like historicised heat on his skin. Sombre shadows greeted him as a friend, a guest in their domain.

But they were the ones who would be forced to retreat, and it would be summer again tomorrow.

So Dean waited.


End file.
